The Devil's Own Invention
by Ceanncait
Summary: A chance meeting with a handsome privateer captain changes everything for a poor girl from Tortuga. NorringtonOC romance. AU: James was critically wounded, but did not die. Post AWE. INCOMPLETE
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

January, Tortuga Town

"Another night, come and gone," Bess said to Maggie, settling tiredly on the bed. It gave a protesting creak, though she was not a fat woman. It was just another sign that Madame Kitty spared more coin for her three Persian cats than for her hard-working girls. Bess could hear the madam's voice as if she stood in the room, each syllable perfectly pronounced in her fancy frog accent. "Eef you _jeune filles_ desire more comfortable lodgings, you are free to go looking for zem." But Bess and every other girl in the house knew that there was nowhere on Tortuga as decent as Kitty's place and so they stayed.

She sat quietly for a moment in the low-ceilinged garret, listening to the night sounds of the brothel. Overnighters snored lustily, curled around their favorite girls, no doubt. Cook took no notice of folks trying to sleep and clashed pots and pans as she set the kitchen to rights for the night. A low thud echoed through the house as Madame Kitty barred the door behind the last stragglers. Bess twisted her long, yellow hair into a plait and shrugged out of her faded wrapper, noticing that the lace needed mending again. She poked her bedmate with an elbow. "Budge over Mags, you're hogging the bed. See that?" She pointed accusingly at the hanging lace. "This old rag'll be more thread than fabric ifn' I keeps mendin' it. P'raps I'll get me a new one tomorrow."

Maggie snorted, scooting over to make room on the narrow bed. "What with? I seen you lose most every shilling you had to Evvie at dice yesterday."

Bess pulled the threadbare blanket up around her thin shoulders. After so many years in the tropics, it still surprised her that Tortuga could get so chilly in the winter. "I had me the Admiral tonight, didn't I?" She closed her eyes, having no need to see the envy that crossed her friend's face. She'd seen it before. "Always leaves somethin' extra for me on the dresser, he does," she added smugly.

"Oooh, the Admiral. Though best not call him that to his face, Bess. It's just plain old Captain now, ain't it? What I wouldn't give to warm his toes on a night like this," Maggie gave a delighted shiver. "Or summat else, a bit higher up." The women cackled, huddling together to conserve warmth. "He never picks me, though," Maggie said, a bit wistfully.

"It's yer hair, luv," she tweaked one of Maggie's long braids. "Got his heart broke once, he did, by a brown-headed lass, 'tis said. Leastaways, I never seen him lie with any gal what's got brown hair. Any road, I've had better men in my bed." Maggie snorted rudely and rolled over to face the wall. Bess spooned up behind her, snuggling down into the rushes. "No, 'tis true. Oh, he's easy enough on the eyes and gentle, like, and there's times when that's a nice change, as you well know. But all the gals I've talked to that he's been with, they all say he played 'em the same as what he did with me. A feel up of the titties, some spit to ease the way and then hup-two-three he's done, as quick and tidy as if he was still wearin' the red coat…and here's me goin' on with you asleep." Bess listened to her friend's soft snoring, as her own limbs grew heavy and her eyes drifted closed.

Bess' last thought before falling asleep was that someday, James Norrington would meet the woman with the key to unlock his passion. And lord, wouldn't the explosion be heard 'round the world, then?


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

April, Tortuga Town

Privateer Captain James Norrington jumped out of the longboat as soon as it bumped up against the decrepit dock. "Tie her up, lads. Back at eight bells of the morning watch, sharp." His men looked at him blankly, and James said patiently, "An hour past dawn." Their faces brightened in comprehension and they busied themselves tying up the boat. James exhaled sharply through his nose and set off down the rubbish-strewn street. The squalor was beneath his notice, however, as he was engaged in the fierce brooding that had occupied him obsessively since fate's twists had taken him from Commodore in the Royal Navy to Admiral of the East India Company to common privateer in a mere year's time.

Of all the things he had lost, from his ceremonial sword to his Admiral's coat, from the woman he loved to very nearly his own life, he had been surprised to find that the thing he most longed for was the simple order and discipline of life aboard a naval vessel. While the letter of marque that James carried stated that his activities were quite legal, James' crew suffered from distinctly piratical tendencies including a woeful lack of respect for such pillars of civilized society as rank and breeding. While James grudgingly admitted that judging a man on his actions was rather more sensible than conferring merit based on birth alone, he bemoaned the fact that his crew seemed to feel that his actions had not yet merited more than a modicum of respect. Therefore, they had the disconcerting habit of questioning him and ignoring any order that sounded even remotely military in nature.

"Aye, ye bilge rats. An' ye know what's good for ye, ye'll have yer flea-ridden carcasses back on deck by dawn," said James under his breath, adding an experimental, "Arrrr," for effect. He shook his head, feeling more like an imposter than ever, and cursed Sparrow and Turner once more to the depths of Hades for bringing him to this sorry state. There was another name. One he would not…could not curse. A name that would never again pass his lips or be allowed to linger for more than a split second in his mind. But Turner and Sparrow he could curse and did, at length and with great creativity at every opportunity.

His dark thoughts accompanied him down the street and to the door of Madame Kitty's establishment. He paused with his hand on the latch, wondering as he always did whether he should not just continue on up the street, forgoing the pleasures offered within. Not that he ever received anything but bodily relief from Kitty's girls. But three months at sea left a man in serious need of bodily relief. "And why should I deny myself?" he thought. He was a pirate, was he not? Best act like one and lose himself for a short time in the scent and softness of a woman; be she whore or no.

Resolutely, he opened the door and was immediately assailed by the wave of sights, smells and noises unique to such establishments. Tobacco smoke entwined with the earthy smell of hops and the sharper smell of hard liquor. The girls were a blur of gaudy, bright dresses and painted lips, their companions providing dark counterpoints in the dim light. High giggles and low moans punctured the night and James fancied if he listened hard enough, he might hear the creak of bedsprings in the upstairs chambers. He stepped in and closed the heavy wooden door behind him. He was no more than three steps into the room when he heard his name called over the din. The French perfume with which Madame Kitty doused herself enveloped him in a flowery cloud, underlain faintly by the not-so-pleasant tang of her sweat.

"James! _Bienvenue, mon cher._ How ees it with you thees evening?" Madame Kitty stood on tiptoe so she could brush each of James' cheeks with a feathery kiss. He assisted by leaning down so the diminutive woman could more easily deliver her effusive greeting.

"_Tres bien, Madame. Et comment allez-vous?"_ answered James, politely responding in perfectly accented court French. She laughed and smacked him lightly on the arm with her fan.

"Ah, _mon cher_, with me you must always speak ze Eenglish. Eet is good practice, _ça va_?" She took his arm and led him to a quieter corner, signaling to one of the girls for brandy and glasses. She settled James on a red velvet sofa that had seen better days, bustling around and making him comfortable. "_Cher_, I am glad you come een tonight. I have need of, how you say? A favor."

The madam poured a generous draught of brandy which James made a little ceremony of tasting. It was a very fine vintage. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Madame, if I may be so bold? What the bloody hell are you up to?"

Madame Kitty gave him an innocent look. "Such language! I am up to nothing, _cher_ James. In fact, eet ees you I hope can be up tonight," she batted her eyes coquettishly. "I have a new girl who is _une innocent, ca va_? I was thinking p'raps you would like to break her in?"

"A virgin? In Tortuga?" James snorted rudely. "Madame, you insult my intelligence." He drained the last of his brandy and made as if to stand. Madame Kitty stayed him with a hand on his shoulder.

"James, you are shrewd. You try to bargain with me. I know the cost, she ees a leetle more for _une virge_, but my girls say you have a gentle touch. She will appreciate zees and remember, I am sure, een the future. Think of eet as an investment."

"By all the hells, you're serious! Where did you find such a marvel, Madame?" James' voice dripped sarcasm but the light of interest was in his eyes.

The madam waved her hand airily, knowing that all she need do was reel in her catch. "Zat ees of no importance. But I swear ze girl is pure. I examine her myself, non?" Her eyes took on a hungry, appraising look.

James stifled a sigh. Much as he hated to admit it, privateering suited him. In fact, he was damned good at it and Madame Kitty knew it. Parting him from his barely-legal gold was a closely-held goal of every madam and barkeep on Tortuga; a goal that often went unmet, thanks to the fact that James almost never made stupid mistakes. Almost never.

"Sooo…" the madam's syllable was drawn out inquisitively. "Do you want her, _mon cher?_"

James thought hard and he thought fast, scenarios and possibilities tumbling through a mind trained by the finest tacticians in the British navy. The opportunity to bed a virgin, unsoiled by the scum of Tortuga, was a heady temptation. He envisioned silky skin, an unpocked face, and slender limbs twining around him as he taught the art of giving and receiving pleasure. The way he might have taught… Ruthlessly, he forced the forbidden name from his mind and turned back to the business at hand.

The odds of Madame Kitty actually procuring a virgin in Tortuga were little better than her procuring a mermaid. Still, if the madam spoke the truth he felt duty-bound to comply. James had sufficiently mastered his conscience enough to bed whores from time to time, but he could not in all honor leave a virgin girl at the mercy of the scum who typically frequented Madam Kitty's establishment. He had no illusions about what might follow, but perhaps he could give the girl a decent experience to start with. It wasn't much, but it was the best he could do and he hardened his heart against the spike of chivalry that threatened to pierce it. That part of his life was gone for good.

He pulled a pouch from his pocket and selected a coin. He handed it to the Madam and arched a brow as she tested it between her teeth. "Ah, cher James, your gold, she ees always good. But you forget. I say zis girl, she is more costly." She eyed the pouch in his hand.

"I haven't forgotten," James said smoothly, rising from the sofa. "That is a deposit equal to the fee for a turn with one of your regular girls, I believe? If this girl truly is an innocent, I'll pay the balance when I'm finished." The Madam opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it again. The truth was, handling a new girl took skill and care. The regular louts were as like to simply break her as break her in. Even if James reneged on his promise of additional payment, he could still ensure that the girl emerged capable of earning her fair share for the house.

"Very well, _cher._ She ees up in the garret room. You know ze one?" The madam pocketed the gold coin and escorted James to the staircase. "You make ze right decision, _mon cher. _I guarantee you will not be disappointed."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Before he opened the door, James found himself automatically smoothing his hair and straightening his jacket. "You can take the man out of the Navy…" he muttered wryly under his breath. The heavy wooden door opened with a protesting creak and the worn planks of the floor sighed under his feet as he advanced into the room. He took three steps into the room and stopped abruptly, eyes widening as he beheld the dainty figure perched on the edge of the ornate, four-poster bed.

"By God," he swore in a barely audible whisper. All was silent. Or perhaps, the rushing in his ears drowned out all other sound. He stood there for an endless moment, simply staring as though he could not make sense of what he saw. The faint sounds of revelry drifted up through the floorboards and he shook his head, reminded suddenly of his purpose. Slowly, he approached the bed and knelt, hands extended, palms up to show his peaceful intent. Two small, trembling hands placed themselves in his and he raised his eyes, momentarily lost in the twin depths that caught his gaze. The roaring in his ears grew louder. After another long moment, James spoke, his voice soft, but demanding.

"How old are you?"

Molly huddled on the bed, shivering in her thin shift. The Caribbean night was damp and cool, making her long for the warmth of her own bed. Her thin back stiffened suddenly as she remembered that her bed, her room and her whole house were lost to her forever. Her slight body was wracked with deeper shivers at the horrid memories. The landlady, stinking of sweat and snuff, demanding payment. Molly, protesting that her da had paid the rent in full before setting sail on what was to be his last voyage. Three nights spent in a closet, no better than a gaol, with naught but crusts to eat. Greedy, leering faces at the auction held to dispose of the accused debtor's property, the most valuable of which turned out to be his daughter. A humiliating examination, followed by hurried instructions from a sharp-nosed Frenchwoman. Horrible stories about things that surely could not be natural from a half-dozen painted women and dire warnings about what would happen to her should she be displeasing. And finally, Molly again, terrified and shoved into this over-decorated room awaiting her first "customer."

She curled her toes under the edge of her cotton shift, wondering if she could climb beneath the blankets and warm herself. But no. Madam had said she should display herself to best advantage. Molly looked down at her slender, childish body and wondered what that meant. In the end, she decided to simply remain perched on the edge of the bed. She was shivering so hard from cold and fear that she did not hear the footfalls stop outside the door. Only its betraying creak alerted her that someone was there. Like a small, frozen statue she sat immobile, barely daring to breathe. Her eyes were fixed on the floor and she listened as the door creaked all the way open, then closed. She the slight wheeze of the boards under a light tread which then stopped abruptly.

Forcing herself to look up, she raised her pointed chin bravely and beheld, not a greasy ragamuffin such as usually inhabited the streets of Tortuga, but a tall, neatly dressed man. His dark hair was bound away from his face in a neat queue and his plain coat and breeches were free from dirt and wrinkles. He held his tricorne hat in his hand.

She sniffed hesitantly. The odor of rum, ever-present in her nostrils since infanthood, was markedly absent. The man's eyes were a clear, warm brown and lacked the tendrils of red so common in the drunkards of Tortuga. She gazed at him, baffled, wondering how such a decent-looking man had found himself in the sink of corruption and filth that was her birthplace.

Her eyes widened further as he exclaimed under his breath and then crossed the room to kneel before her. He extended his brown and calloused hands, real seaman's hands, palm up and looked at her questioningly. Not knowing his wish, she placed her trembling hands in his, meeting his velvet dark gaze and holding it. She felt bewitched, ensorcelled by an enchantment whose source was wholly alien to her. And enchantment that shattered as he spoke, softly but sternly.

"How old are you?"

Molly struggled to stay calm and provide the answer Madame had instructed that she give. "I'm sixteen, sir. Had me birthday last month, I did. S-sweet sixteen a-and never been kissed. Unless you'd like to have a go, sir." The last words trailed off to a whisper as his eyes hardened and his face flushed with sudden anger.

She watched him warily as he took a deep breath, and replied calmly, "I have spent my life among seamen. Sailor, pirate or fisherman, those men are the greatest tale-tellers known to mankind. Even a cabin boy can lie better than you, my girl. So, I repeat, how old are you?"

Molly looked from his eyes to the floor and back again. His expression was stern and proud and brooked absolutely no disobedience. Finally, she dropped her gaze to the floor and whispered a reply. "I can't hear you," he said gently, tipping up her chin with his forefinger. His touch was warm and gentle, but insistent. Raised in a world where men almost never touched women with a gentle hand, Molly was lost.

"Th-thirteen, sir." she blurted. "Fourteen come next April." She clapped her hands over her mouth and tears ran down her thin, pinched face. Madame had said it would be the streets for her if she ever told her true age. What was to become of her now?

The flare of his nostrils was slight, but Molly saw it and, accustomed as she was to divining moods she knew he was still angry. Had she still lived at home with her da, she'd have been inventing a reason to get out of the house for that expression usually foretold a beating mood. "What is your name, child?" the man asked, still speaking softly and gently cupping her chin.

"M-Mattie." A tiny spark of pride flared in Molly's breast. She would not let them take her name from her. If hers was to be a whore's fate, then that whore's name would be Mattie. Her true name she kept to herself. It was all she had left. The spark kindled a tiny flame of defiance. "But I'm no child, sir. I'm a woman grown and that's no lie." She stared at him, daring him to contradict her.

James found himself caught by her eyes, huge in her thin face. Abruptly, he stood and paced around the room trying to think what on earth he was going to do. What could Madame Kitty have been thinking? Bringing a child into such a place and expecting him to…to…he forced his attention back to the child, for that is what she surely was, in front of him.

The girl, Mattie, followed his movement with wary eyes, arms wrapped around her scrawny frame. He looked at her and she stared back at him, her eyes issuing an unspoken challenge. James felt his heart contract as her bravery and obvious fighting spirit brought memories back that he'd just as soon have forgotten forever. Memories of another defiant, headstrong young lass.

A lass who, a split second later, James realized could be the salvation of this whole sordid matter if he was willing to lay aside his pride. He hesitated a moment, then squared his broad shoulders and came to a decision.

He stripped off his coat, and tossed it to the girl who cowered against the headboard. James cursed himself, knowing that the girl must have thought that the hour of her defilement had come at last. "Put that on," he commanded. "I'm not going to hurt you, lass. Put it on." He used a softer tone; the one that she had responded to earlier. A fighting spirit the girl might have, but she was a delicate bloom all the same and one who could be frightened easily. He watched impassively as the girl struggled into his coat then helped her turn up the too-long sleeves. "No shoes, but that can't be helped," he said, almost to himself. "I'll have to carry you."

"Carry me?" she squeaked. "Where do ye mean to be takin' me, sir?" She cringed back into the corner of the bed, out of arm's reach.

Moving slowly, he knelt beside the bed once again, softly cajoling, "I will take you from here tonight and tomorrow I will send you to a place where you will be safe. I swear it, Mattie. Come, put your arms around my neck, little one."

The endearment seemed to move the girl and she scooted forward. She regarded him for a long, uncertain moment, then wound her thin arms around his neck. He swept her up in his arms feeling the sharpness of her bones against his body as he cradled her against him. She weighed no more than a feather. Hands full, he solved the problem of opening the door with the swift application of his booted foot. The door crashed against the outer wall, arousing curious shouts from below. James quickly descended the staircase, ignoring the trembling of the girl in his arms and her tears, which wet his white, linen shirt.

Madam Kitty was waiting when he reached the bottom step. "James, _mon cher_! What ees ze meaning of thees…thees behavior? Does the little _mademoiselle_ not please you. Why, I thought…"

"It is apparent that you thought me a man of low enough character that I would violate a child," James snapped, shifting the girl so that she was held even more securely in his arms. "I have no wish to hear any more of your thoughts, Madame."

"Child? Cher James, zat ees no child. No girl on this wretched isle stays a child for long past ze cradle. Where do you theenk ze grown women you bed come from? Ze kitchen garden? Pah!" The madam made a Gallic sound deep in her throat.

"I am well aware of where they come from, Madame. And had you sent another man in my place tonight, it is likely this child would indeed have become one of their ilk. But you did not. You chose me and I choose a different fate for her." He cradled the girl securely against him with one arm and fished a pouch from his pocket. Casting it on the ground at the Madam's feet he spat, "I think you will find more than generous remuneration for your trouble, Madam. And your silence on this matter." His eyes were cold and implacable as the Madam picked up the pouch and spilled a dozen gold coins into her palm.

"Assuredly, _cher_ James," she breathed.

He stalked to the door which a manservant hurriedly opened, lest James repeat the exercise he'd performed abovestairs. But before he left, he turned and pierced the Madam with his gaze once more. "One more thing, Madame Kitty," his pronunciation of the courtesy title was sneering. "If I ever find you've taken such a young girl under your protection again, I will shut you down."

"Pah," Madame Kitty sneered back. "Zere ees no law in Tortuga. You 'ave no right."

"Perhaps not. But I have men. And I have powder. And I will bring this place down around your ears if you cross me. You will not receive another warning." And with that, he stalked out of the brothel, his burden light and fragile in his arms.


	4. Interlude

_Dear Mrs. Turner;_

_I am sure it is as much a surprise to me as it is to you that I have put pen to paper to contact you after our last meeting. There is much that could be said, but let us, in the interest of friendship, let it remain unwritten for now._

_By some stroke of luck, I encountered Mr. Gibbs this morning here in Tortuga. The story of how I came to be here, resupplying a privateer's ship, is long and would be a digression from the point of this letter. Rest assured I am safe and hope you are the same._

_I write to you because I feel we can be of some assistance to each other in a matter that has recently come to my attention. Gibbs was quite close-mouthed, but he did give me some small information about your circumstance. To be a woman alone, with a small child, cannot be easy for you. I find myself in the equally difficult situation of having assumed guardianship of a young woman in need of a reputable position._

_Meeting Gibbs was a stroke of fortune, to be sure. Otherwise I might have had to spend much of my time and resources locating you. If you feel you can trust me, as you once did, perhaps you will send me news of your whereabouts. Old habits die hard, I suppose, and my mind would be greatly eased if I could check on your well-being from time to time. But again, I digress._

_Gibbs has agreed to escort my young charge to you, and has provided me assurances as to her safety. I am sending the girl to you in the hopes that your better nature and your compassion will outweigh your pride and reluctance to accept aid from such as myself. She is a good girl and I believe her to be hard-working and dependable. Let her be of assistance in whatever ways you deem best for you both._

_Please, Elizabeth, if I may be so informal as to use your given name as I once did, take the girl in, if not for the help she can lend you, then as a favor to an old friend._

_Yours Truly,_

_Captain James Norrington_


	5. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Five years later_...

The sea was an unbroken expanse of steel gray, extending unbroken to the horizon. A gentle spring rain fell, creating the tiniest ripples in the ocean's surface. Tiny droplets ran in meandering rivulets down the windows of a gray, clapboard house on high, grassy bluff. Elizabeth Turner gazed out one of those windows at the misty landscape and sullen sea and sky. For a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of wondering what the weather was like wherever Will might be. Then, she resolutely dragged her eyes back to her desk and the pile of correspondence waiting for her attention.

Some of the letters were bills: Grocer, milliner, and dressmaker. Those she laid aside to deal with later. It had taken a long, hard year of negotiations with her father's solicitors in London but ultimately, she'd out-stubborned them and gained her inheritance. Thankfully, Billy had been just a baby then; three months old and too young to remember the sordid boarding houses she had endured and her quick escapes when the Navy got too close. Inheritance in hand, she'd been able to have a modest house built. She chose for its location am isolated island inhabited only by a small herd of wild horses; Elizabeth supposed they must be survivors of a Spanish wreck for they were very fine-looking animals. The lonely island was well-situated: within a day's sail of Jamaica and Port Royal, but far enough outside the shipping lanes that her presence went largely unremarked.

She laid aside a stack of broadsheets newly come from England. Her face had long since ceased to appear in them along with the offer of 10,000 pounds sterling to whoever brought her to justice. Her location kept her hidden and her money bought the silence of the few who might speak out of turn or ask untidy questions. She, herself, cared nothing for public opinion, rewards or notoriety. All her thoughts, every day, focused on one thing only: the well-being of her son.

But at night, matters were quite different. It was only in the solitude of her bed, in the tropical scented darkness, that she allowed herself to think of Will for more than a fleeting second. Some nights she smiled into the darkness, the sweetness of memory bringing a curve to her lips. Some nights she cried desolate, lonely tears. Some nights she raged at the unfairness of it all, screaming her fury into the pillows so Billy would not hear and be frightened. "More than half the time gone now," she thought. "I am on the downward slope." She would not allow herself to think past sunset on the glorious day when she would be reunited with Will. The idea of beginning the climb anew would surely crush her should she dwell upon it overly much.

She piled the bills neatly and opened the drawer where she kept outstanding correspondence. But when she tried to close it, it jammed on something. Sliding the drawer out again, she reached into the back where her fingers touched a crumpled piece of paper. Pulling it free, she turned it over, immediately recognizing the slanted handwriting. James. If hearing his name in her head made her frown slightly, the name that followed on its heels considerably brightened her expression. Molly. She settled back in her chair, scanned the crumpled letter and for a moment, was overcome with fresh gratitude. James had, all unknowing, saved her sanity when he'd sent her Molly Weaver. And no small feat that must have been for him. If he had not found Gibbs, and if Gibbs had not consented to bring the girl to her hidden sanctuary, Elizabeth was quite sure she would have lost her mind long since.

Half-mad with grief and depression, all alone on a deserted island with helpless infant, she had frankly stared at the waif who stood beside Gibbs on her threshold. She turned on Gibbs, ready to flay him alive for revealing her secret without her permission but when she saw the letter in his hand bearing James' familiar handwriting, she stopped cold. She snatched it from his hand and broke the seal with trembling hands, terrified thoughts whirling in her mind. She had been discovered. Will was dead. Jack was dead. The possibilities had been dreadful. But in the end, James simply wanted her help and to help her in return. She let out a half-sob of relief and silently motioned the pair inside. Molly had been her constant companion ever since.

A small noise made Elizabeth cock her head, listening in the way all mothers do for possible mischief or premature awakening. But all was silence. Billy was still sleeping. At nearly five, he still took a short nap in the afternoon. She idly wondered how much longer he would need it. A melancholy sadness gripped her, and she felt torn. He was not her sweet baby any more yet the more he grew, the closer she was to reuniting with Will. Musing on growth and the passage of time, her thoughts drifted once again to Molly.

The girl had come to her unschooled and ragged. She had not known her letters save to laboriously spell her own name. At table, she displayed atrocious manners and seemed ignorant of even the most basic grooming tasks. After a few days of observing the girl with undisguised horror, it gave Elizabeth new purpose to begin patiently instructing Molly in the niceties of behavior. Washing and brushing the girl's shining auburn hair became a nightly ritual. Slowly, as Molly bloomed and Elizabeth emerged from her cocoon of despair, a bond developed between the two young women and Elizabeth began teaching Molly her letters. A stranger watching them bend over their books, hair freshly washed and streaming over their shoulders, might have mistaken them for sisters rather than maid and mistress.

The first years on the island were hard. A small garden provided a meager crop but Elizabeth, Billy and Molly relied upon Gibbs for the bulk of their supplies. A wanted man himself, it was not easy for him to meet the needs of a woman and two growing children. Rum and hardtack he could easily supply, but if a man could not show his face in decent places, decent goods could be hard to find. They often went without such essentials as meat and milk until Gibbs finally managed to procure one evil-tempered she-goat. It was during their second year together that Elizabeth began to learn from Molly. Unlettered though she was, Molly knew the housewifely skills Elizabeth had never learned: milking, churning, cheese making, canning and preserving the small fruits of the garden. Molly took over the washing and mending of their few precious clothes and was a wonder at altering small Billy's things so they might last another season. She was also marvelously skilled with plant dyes though they had precious little fabric to spare.

The second year passed, slightly better than the first but still perilously close to hand-to-mouth. Then, two days after Molly's sixteenth birthday, Gibbs and Molly approached Elizabeth with an audacious plan. Gibbs would sail Molly to Port Royal in the single-masted skiff Elizabeth kept for emergencies. There, Molly, using Elizabeth's money would purchase the supplies they needed under the guise of a maid to an eccentric hermit who preferred to live apart from society. It was a dangerous plan. Molly could be robbed of the money. She and Gibbs could be followed back to Elizabeth's hideaway. Worst of all Molly, the only one of the trio without a price on her head, could be declared a pirate by association and face the gallows. Molly readily accepted the dangers but Elizabeth refused agree until Gibbs and Molly played on her maternal concerns. Billy needed better food if he was to thrive. Eventually, more books would be required to see to his education. They argued these points until finally Elizabeth agreed to try the arrangement on a trial basis.

That had been three years ago. Since then, the trio had worked out the wrinkles and kinks until Molly's quarterly trips were now seamless and uneventful. The gnawing worry that Elizabeth had felt each time Molly and Gibbs set out had faded to a slight nibble. In fact, the girl was currently in Port Royal and would not return until week's end. Elizabeth glanced at the calendar, looking forward to Molly's return with the muslin for their new summer gowns. No one would see them, but it was something different to do during the long, boring days. Particularly since Molly was intending to experiment with some new dye combinations of plants and berries.

"Mama?" a sleepy voice roused her from her reverie. Her son stood at the door to the study, rubbing sleepy, black-velvet eyes. She refolded the faded letter and put it away, then she went to her son gathering him in a warm embrace.

"Good afternoon, Master Turner!" she said lightly. "Are you hungry? There is bread and milk in the kitchen." She led her son away, the letter, James and Molly forgotten for the moment.

**Author's Note:** _Although others have interpreted that Will's captaincy of the Dutchman would end after ten years, I have always thought that his fate was to captain the ship forever, only allowed to visit dry land once every ten years._


	6. Chapter 4

The streets of Port Royal bustled with activity as Molly headed out the front door of her lodgings. The boarding-house was genteel and non-descript, catering mostly to married women traveling to join their husbands in the Caribbean and beyond. It was perfect for a young woman alone and provided an inconspicuous base of operations for Molly.

In fact, everything about Molly was deliberately unremarkable as she set off down the cobbled street. Her gown was plain, gray muslin with minimal trim or furbelows. Her bonnet had a deep brim which served as much to protect her pale skin from the sun as it did to conceal her face. A serviceable market basket swung from her arm. In short, she looked every bit the part of a maid-servant doing the marketing.

It amused Molly to wonder what the people passing by would think if they knew that she wore breeches far more often than skirts. Or that she and her mistress often bathed in the ocean quite unconcerned with clothing of any type. With only themselves to please, Molly and Elizabeth had discarded many social conventions over the years and generally, did not miss them one tiny bit.

It did not amuse Molly at all to speculate on what would happen if they knew the identity of her employer. The name of Elizabeth Swann Turner, while not as common a subject for gossip as it once was, was still quite well known to the inhabitants of Port Royal. At best, the Port Royal gentry regarded her as good woman of breeding who had been led into depravity against her will. At worst, the Royal Navy considered her despicable and immoral whore and the sooner she went to the gallows, the better.

Molly reached the corner where her narrow street intersected with a broader, palm-lined boulevard. She turned left and walked briskly down a slight hill toward a row of shops near the harbor. Consulting a list in her gloved hand, she stopped first at a cloth merchant and then at a dry goods shop. Small purchases were stored in the basket. Larger purchases were sent either to her lodgings or directly to the small schooner anchored on the fringes of the quay. She also placed several orders that would take several days to fulfill. Her most pressing business concluded, she strolled back up the hill and stopped at the booksellers shop.

Pausing on the threshold, as she always did, she took a deep, appreciative sniff. The smell of paper, ink and dust enticed her the way some women might be tempted by the smell of chocolate. Learning to read had taken the better part of an extremely frustrating year but once accomplished, she became a voracious reader. Much of the small stipend Elizabeth provided went to the purchase of new books. The island house now boasted a small but diverse library of instructional treatises, history texts, books on the sciences and the novels that Molly loved beyond all else.

One of her most vivid memories was a rather one-sided conversation she'd had with Captain Norrington the morning after he quite spectacularly spirited her from the brothel. She had awoken that morning in the captain's cabin of the _Cygnet_, confused and disoriented. Wide-eyed, she listened as the captain explained that he was trying to locate an old friend who he thought would take her on as a maid-servant and companion. Molly had never imagined herself with such fine prospects and said so, adding, "I don't know how I can ever thank ye, Captain."

He had looked at her keenly, warm brown eyes searching her face with such earnest interest that she blushed and looked away. Finally, he spoke. "You can thank me by taking every opportunity to better yourself, Mattie." She never told the captain her given name—before she trusted him enough to do so, she was well on her way to Elizabeth's island. She never forgot his advice or his kindness, and applied herself to her duties and studies with a single-minded intensity.

Her mouth quirked in a wry smile as she reminded herself that his kindness wasn't the only thing she never forgot. Looking back, she suspected that her thirteen-year-old self had fallen a little in love with the man. And what young girl would not, she asked herself, rescued in such a spectacularly romantic fashion? Elizabeth's forbidding expression when his name was mentioned forestalled any discussion of him as a living, breathing human being and over the years, the captain had become near-mythical, heroic figure to Molly.

She browsed the piles of books happily for a quarter-hour, selecting several new novels and a book on weaving. One of the orders she had placed was for a small handloom and a spinning wheel. Before her mother's death, in the vague recesses of her memory, Molly remembered being instructed in the family trade. She dreamed of starting a small shearing flock of her own so that she could weave and dye her own fabric. Aside from reading, Molly's favorite pastime was scouring the hills of the island for new ingredients with which she could create dyes.

She carried her books to the counter and spent a few moments chatting with the elderly proprietor. It seemed safe to her to speak with him since he never seemed to remember her no matter how many times she visited his shop. Bidding him good day, she headed towards the door. The temptation to take a quick peek inside the topmost volume was strong and she was quickly distracted enough to not watch where she was going.

She pushed open the door with her free hand, and walked through without heed to anyone or anything in front of her. Perhaps if the street had been less busy, she would not have met with misfortune. But it was quite crowded and inevitably, she bumped squarely into a person trying to enter the shop as she was exiting. Her books flew from her hands in all directions and she gave a cry of dismay, dropping to her knees to retrieve them. Her attention was so focused on rescuing her treasures that she was quite startled when another hand brushed hers and a deep voice offered assistance.

"How clumsy of me. Pray, let me help you pick those up, Mistress."

Molly looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes. "Thank y…" As her vision expanded to take in the face of the man kneeling beside her, she sat down hard on her bottom. Her stomach churned wildly as her mind connected the eyes, the voice and the calloused sailor's hands with someone she had never expected to encounter again.

Captain James Norrington.


	7. Chapter 5

Molly sat back on her heels, stunned. Captain Norrington was looking at her quizzically, clearly curious about her odd reaction. In the split second their eyes met, Molly realized that he did not recognize her! Surely, she could not have changed that much? She felt a bit piqued that he did not remember her. But the rational part of her mind reminded her that she bore little resemblance to the skinny, bedraggled waif the Captain had rescued that long-ago night.

She covered her discomfiture by stacking her books and getting quickly to her feet, mind racing frantically. Part of her longed to reveal herself to the Captain for she knew she had changed from the skinny waif he'd met all those years ago. Her feminine ego longed to see the surprise and interest her transformation would surely spark in his eyes. But she also remembered her mistress' dark expression at the mention of the Captain's name. Elizabeth would surely not appreciate him discovering their island. Adoration for both her rescuer and her mistress warred for a moment in her heart. Norrington had set her on the path to a more respectable life, but Elizabeth had taken her into her home and her heart. No matter what she felt for the man, she could not betray the woman she had come to regard as a sister.

She could not tell him who she was.

Forcing herself to speak, she took the last remaining book from Captain Norrington, careful to avoid contact with his hand. The single brief touch they had shared still tingled across the back of her palm. "Thank you, sir," she murmured, and turned quickly away, clutching her books to her chest like a shield. But she found herself once again confounded by the door. Her arms were full and as she tried to shift her burden to free a hand, the door swung smoothly open before her.

"Allow me, mistress." The Captain stood beside her, gallantly holding the door ajar. The sound of his voice, smooth and low, sent a shiver down her spine and she chided herself for her foolishness as he looked at her intently. "Are you quite all right, mistress?" he asked solicitously.

"Just a chill. Nothing more," she attempted to brush past him and out the door, but he stayed her with a polite hand on her arm. The touch burned through her thin cotton dress. She shook him off irritably. "Sir, you presume!" He snatched his hand back quickly, as though burned himself.

"I feel I should see you home, mistress. Clearly, you are unwell." Molly had heard that tone in his voice once before and groaned inwardly. Nothing, now, would stop him from escorting her to her lodgings. The captain, she thought to herself, clearly had an overdeveloped hero complex. Sighing, she handed him the books and without another word, sailed out the door, the bewildered captain following close behind.

****

James had gone to the bookstore in search of some new books for the library on _The Cygnet_. It pleased him to keep a respectable collection of books for his own entertainment and edification as well as that of his men, though precious few ever availed themselves of its benefits. In his distraction, stewing over the unlettered habits of his men, he failed to notice the young woman coming out the door of the shop until he collided with her. Books flew in all directions and she dropped to her knees with a cry of dismay.

Hurriedly, he knelt to help pick up the books and set the situation to rights. He had no more than glanced at the young lady, brushed her hand in an exchange of a book, when she sat down hard on her bottom and stared at him as though she'd seen some sort of apparition. Her blue eyes were wide with shock, an expression made even more dramatic by the fringe of long, black lashes which almost immediately swept down to her blushing cheeks. Her voice was low and mellifluous as she murmured her thanks, almost to softly for him to hear.

Bemused, he helped her gather the books, then rose and attempted to assist her with the door which had confounded her moments before. She was shivering. He could actually see the gooseflesh on her slender arms. James sighed slightly as he felt the familiar protective instinct take over. "Are you quite all right?"

"A chill, nothing more." He saw her pale skin grow whiter still and fearing she would faint, laid his hand gently on her arm and felt the most peculiar sensation, as though his hand was prickling with St. Elmo's fire itself. Sensible James was quite overcome by the feeling that time had somehow slowed down. What should have been a chance accident, quickly set to rights, seemed to have taken on some deeper meaning, yet one that was elusive and made him decidedly uneasy.

The young woman angrily shook off his touch, which he supposed had been slightly improper, but the entire encounter was beginning to border on the surreal. "I feel I should see you home…" he found himself saying as though another had overtaken his powers of speech. He shook his head and wondered if, perhaps, he'd taken too much sun.

The woman shook her curls and sighed strongly through her dainty nostrils. Shoving the books at him, she flounced out of the shop without a word, leaving him to follow in her wake and wonder how his quiet afternoon had taken such an unexpected turn.


End file.
